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All in the crowd were trying to touch him, for power came out from him and healed all of them.

In the name of the living God, who creates, redeems, and sustains us.

About 50 years ago, I was with my three younger brothers one Christmas morning in Odessa. One of us, I don’t remember who but I’m afraid it might have been me, didn’t get something he wanted for Christmas. Now I also don’t remember what it was that boy didn’t get: it could have been a Major Matt Mason Space Crawler or a utility belt for his Batman outfit. It could have been a “pop gun, pampoogas, pantookas, or drums!” It might have been a “checkerboard, bizilbigs, popcorn, or plums.”

But there we were, in our living room which was scattered with torn wrapping paper, stockings full of candy and our Christmas gifts, and one of us (again I’m afraid it might have been me), complained and grumbled about the unfairness of it all.

And without any explanation, my mother packed all four of us into the station wagon. And we drove for a good while, and as I remember the dawn was just beginning to break. And my mother drove us to the poor side of Odessa, where people literally lived in ramshackle houses built with discarded cinder blocks, two by fours, cardboard and black plastic lining the roofs. And my brothers and I stared out the window with wide eyes, because we didn’t know people actually lived like that. (It would be many years before I knew that people actually lived in much worse circumstances.) I saw people who surely didn’t have enough to eat, or clean water. And my mother didn’t say a word.

That morning, my mother gave me a beautiful, generous, terrible blessing. And I think of it every time Christmas rolls around, and often when I see a homeless person, or meet someone who’s down on their luck, or seems to be a little less kind or less educated than the people I like to consider my friends. My mother gave me a blessing; she opened my eyes to the world around me, to a world which is not always gentle or generous or fun. As John Newton wrote, I was blind and now I see. And I learned that a blessing is not always a happy event; it doesn’t always make you proud, and it doesn’t always feel like a kindness.

So, we should probably talk about this morning’s gospel, which scholars refer to as the Sermon on the Plain. It’s worth setting the scene. This story takes place fairly early in Luke’s gospel; Jesus has just called his twelve disciples. And he’s been up, praying on the mountain, and comes down to a level place, a plain, and a crowd has gathered.

So, one of the things we know about Luke’s gospel is that it is profoundly Greek. Luke’s Greek is the most elegant of the four gospels, and he often uses references to Greek literature. And in Greek literature, we know that the gods dwelt on Mount Olympus, and came down to the earth to interact with humanity. So, it’s probably not a coincidence that Luke’s Jesus goes to the mountain to be with God, and comes down to the plain to meet the people.

Luke’s gospel is also probably the most inclusive of the four Gospels. By this, I mean that everyone is within the circle of holiness. In Luke, Jesus reaches out to lepers, the lame, the blind, the tax collectors. Luke’s gospel pays particular attention to women, and to Gentiles. We find that in today’s text, because Luke notes that people came from “all Judea, Jerusalem, and the coast of Tyre and Sidon.” So, when Luke says they came from Tyre and Sidon—that’s Gentile country.

As Jesus begins to preach he describes the poor, the hungry, the outcasts, and the broken-hearted as “blessed.” Now, in the original Greek that word is makarios. It was first used to describe the gods, the immortals who lived lives without worries, or work, or even fear of death. Later on, makarios came to encompass the elite, those whose riches and power put them beyond the everyday cares and the strife of most people’s lives.

Moreover, while Jesus announces that these people will share in a reward later, he says they are already “blessed.” That pronouncement is in the present tense. Most of us probably overlook just how radical and revolutionary Jesus’ sermon would have seemed. I think anyone looking at that rag-tag, dirty, collection of the detritus of the Roman empire would have found the suggestion that they were the “blessed” preposterous, irresponsible, and a little bit silly. Why, that’s crazy talk.

And then, in the second half of Jesus’ sermon, it gets even worse. You know, I sometimes hear people say they just love the sayings of Jesus, especially the Beatitudes. I don’t love them; they keep me awake at night. Because when I hear about the people that Jesus says are in trouble—the wealthy, those who aren’t hungry, those whom people speak well of, those who are laughing—well, I think I might be in that group. And all those characteristics—those are most of the things that most of us would think make up a happy life. And Jesus says those are the people who are in trouble. That’s crazy talk.

So, what’s going on here? Well, I think there are at least a couple of things. First, let’s look at the people Jesus calls “blessed”—the poor, the hungry, the outcasts, and the broken hearted. Now, I want you to remember back to the Gospel three weeks ago, when Jesus was preaching his first sermon back in his hometown of Nazareth. And he quoted from the prophet Isaiah and announced that he was there to bring good news to the poor, sight to the blind, and break the chains of the captives and to free those who were oppressed. Well, those are the very people he’s talking about this morning, and calling them “blessed.”

Now, Jesus wasn’t romanticizing the poor. He knew these people; he knew that their lives were short, brutish and full of struggle and pain. But I think Jesus could see something that we can’t.

I think Jesus could see that beneath this world we live in, there’s an invisible structure that created it, that holds it up and sustains it. I think Jesus knew about this invisible architecture of God’s love that surrounds these people: the God in whom we live and move and have our being. And in that world, these people are the “blessed” ones.
And it was that unseen fabric that blest that petulant selfish boy one Christmas morning and put him in the car and took him for a drive and urged him: “Wake up! Look at the world around you! Pay attention here, because this is what’s important!”

So, this morning’s Gospel tells us that power came out of Jesus and healed everyone in the crowd that day. And maybe Jesus really laid hands on them and healed every one of them. Or maybe, just maybe, this sermon, this announcement of their blessedness is what actually healed them.

You know, the Church has told me that I can teach and preach, and I wear these robes and this Cross. But every now and then, I still run into that angry little boy from Odessa. And he’s still muttering and grumbling, mired in his self-centered little world. And I’m always surprised when he shows up because I thought he’d be smarter by now, that he’d be further along on his journey. But maybe someday this invisible current of God’s love and grace will heal him, too. God knows he needs it. God knows we all do. God knows.

Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

In the name of the living God: Who creates, redeems and sustains us.

I think it’s hard for most of us to imagine the Temple in Jesus’ day. It was a magnificent structure, with gleaming white marble pillars. Its exterior walls were about the height of a modern 20 story building. The central structure of the inner Temple glistened with white marble and gold and immense bronze entrance doors. Herod built it to rival the great religious structures around the world. Like all massive building projects, it was a source of economic growth.

But for the Jewish people, it was so much more. You came to the Temple to have your sins forgiven, to celebrate, to worship, to ask for a blessing. For the Jewish people, quite literally, the Temple was the place where God lived. It was the intersection of heaven and earth.

I think if you were to ask Jesus how he felt about that Temple he would have been stunningly ambiguous, fiercely equivocal. He could see the beauty of the place, and he knew that for many it was a place of prayer and devotion. And yet, it also was a place that took advantage of the poor, that betrayed widows and orphans, that collaborated with the occupying Romans, and it was also a monument to Herod’s narcissism.

Nevertheless, to predict its destruction, to even speculate about that sort of thing, was bad form. It’s not the kind of thing a nice Jewish boy would talk about. In fact, later in Mark’s gospel, that suggestion would be used as evidence against Jesus in his trial. You see, what Jesus said, well, that’s the kind of thing that could get you killed.

And yet, after one of the many Jewish revolts, around 70 A.D. (around the time Mark was writing his gospel), the Romans marched in and destroyed the Temple. The historian Josephus, who was admittedly prone to exaggeration, says that over a million people were killed. Many others were taken slaves. The Temple was levelled, and fire consumed much of the residential areas in Jerusalem. For the Jewish people, it was a catastrophe. I’m sure they wondered how God could let this happen, whether God cared about them anymore. And not one stone was left upon another.

You know several years ago, I was teaching a class on a Wednesday night at another church here in town. And when I got out of class and went to my car, I checked my phone and there 16 missed calls and several messages from my no-good brother Patrick. I immediately called Patrick and learned that my brother Sean Michael, had taken his own life.

Now my baby brother Sean Michael was one of the bright lights in this world. He was brilliant, with a PhD in environmental chemistry. He had worked as a chemist cleaning up toxic waste sites, and later became a high school chemistry teacher. He was funny, and bright and kind and warm, and had a nasty habit of breaking into show tunes for very little reason. In many ways, he was the best of what my family could offer to the world. And then, he was gone. And not one stone was left upon another. I’ll come back to this in just a moment.

I think many of us have had moments like that, times when our entire world comes crashing down around us, times when not one stone is left upon another. A soldier comes home from the Middle East after multiple deployments. And once the initial celebration ends, his family begins to notice that he’s just not the same person anymore. And their lives begin to unravel. Or a woman meets with the human resources director and learns that her job has been eliminated. And she doesn’t have any idea how she’ll feed her family. And not one stone is left upon another.

Or one more gunman walks into a church and plucks several lives away from a decent, gentle, holy congregation. Or a young couple travel to Texas Children’s Hospital in Houston with their three year old daughter. While there, they receive a terrifying diagnosis. Or a marriage of two people who genuinely loved and cared about each other falls apart. And not one stone is left upon another. So, what are we to do about these events? How do we respond as a church? How do we carry on when not one stone is left upon another?

I think Jesus offers us a bit of a clue in today’s gospel, when he tells us these events, these tragedies, these famines, these moments of devastation, are the “beginnings of the birthpangs.” Something remains to be born out of our pain, out of our loss, out of our devastation, God will bring forth something new.

So, back to that night in 2007 when I learned about my brother’s death. I turned around and went into the church and knelt down in one of the chapels and began to pray. And I wept like a baby. And one of the priests there, to whom I will always be grateful, came into that chapel and knelt down beside me and I noticed that he was crying, too.

So I asked how we deal with those moments when our world falls apart, when not one stone is left upon another. The writer of Hebrews talks about “holding fast to the confession of hope.” We are called to defy terror and oppression and sorrow with hope. It may seem an insufficient weapon when confronted with the blunt force trauma of this world, but Scripture and the Cross assure us that hope is, in the end, insurmountable. The reading from Hebrews continues: “let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching.” That’s the Church, that’s the real church. Two men, praying and crying in the dark.

In this season of stewardship, we might well ask how we are going to be good stewards of the people God has placed in our lives. Our confession of hope lies in provoking each other to love more intensely, forgive more completely, and challenging each other to care for God’s children more deeply. As Saint Paul said, we can hold fast to what is good, care for each other with profound affection. And they’ll know we are Christians, not by our architecture or our programs or our average Sunday attendance. They’ll know we are Christians by our love. Amen.

Jesus said, “I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.”The Jews then disputed among themselves, saying, “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?” So Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, and they died. But the one who eats this bread will live forever.” [The full readings for this morning can be found here.]

Jesus said, “I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.”

In the name of the living God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Good morning, good morning. It’s a pleasure to be with you here this morning, and I’d like to thank your provost and your clergy for this kind invitation. I should also thank you for your warm hospitality while we’re visiting with you today.

You know, when I was growing up, out in West Texas, one of the things my mother used to tell me all the time was, “You are what you eat.” She was trying to be wise, trying to convince me to avoid junk food and so she often repeated, “You are what you eat.” This, of course, explains my lifelong aversion to cauliflower, asparagus and brussels sprouts. You see, I did not like brussels sprouts, asparagus and cauliflower, and I did not want to be brussels sprouts, asparagus, and cauliflower. Thus, I did not eat them. That being said, I have come to believe, as has happened so often, that my mother was right. We are, we become, what we eat.

Our gospel passage this morning sort of operates as a summary of a fairly long discourse Jesus began in Chapter 6 of John’s gospel. It’s well worth exploring. If you’ll remember, this chapter begins with the feeding of the five thousand, one of the signs in John’s gospel that reveal the true identity of Jesus. As in the earlier passages, there’s a clear We also hear the echo of the story of Moses and the burning bush, when God tells Moses: I am who I am. John piles layer of meaning upon layer.”

Now, it’s worth remembering that for Jesus’ audience, “bread” probably meant something very different than it does to most of us. For most of us, bread is something nice to accompany an otherwise pleasant meal. We might even shun it if we’re watching our carbs because there’s plenty of other things to eat that are good for us.

But most of Jesus’ audience, and most of John’s audience, lived on a subsistence income, making barely enough to live on for that day. And for them, “our daily bread” often meant the difference between living and dying. Just as for the five thousand who came to hear Jesus, or the Hebrews wandering in the desert, bread was the solution to the ever-present problem of hunger. Bread was the solution to the problem of living another day.

Remember that Jesus says that whoever eats of his bread will live forever. That’s a variation of the Greek phrase for “eternal life.” Too often, we hear that and we think Jesus is talking about going to heaven, but I think Jesus understood that phrase differently. Notice Jesus says whoever eats this bread “has” eternal life. Both in the Greek and in our translation, the phrase is in the present tense. So this life is “eternal,” signifying that it is imbued, or a sharing, with the divine. And that’s a characteristic that belongs exclusively to the divine. Because we know every created thing fades away; nothing lasts forever.

But this divine or eternal life Jesus is offering is available now, not simply later on, in heaven, somewhere out there or up there. Jesus was telling his audience, and by that I mean us, that this life is already available to us: right here, right now. The sacramental life is not like a mortgage, where you wait until you make the last payment until you get the title. The sacramental life is a sign that God is already waiting for us—right here, right now.

I don’t want you to walk away from this passage with the impression that Jesus is only talking about some misty, ethereal, spiritual food. As Frederich Buechner has observed, “We don’t live on bread alone, but we also don’t live long without it. Remember, Jesus has just fed lunch to five thousand people. In part, Jesus is talking about real food in the kingdom that he announces. In his sermon in January 1980, Archbishop Óscar Romero spoke of the great poverty of most of the people of El Salvador. “There is hunger not because the land has not produced enough food,” said the archbishop, “but because some people have monopolized the fruits of the land, thus leaving others hungry.”

Romero knew that the church, in the effort to announce the kingdom of God and establish signs of its present reality, could never restrict its mission to people’s spiritual problems and dissociate itself from their temporal ones. If we want to share in the life of Jesus, in the kingdom, then our concerns should be the concerns of Jesus. And he was concerned with feeding the hungry, healing the sick, and binding up the brokenhearted. Or, as Saint John Chrysostrom said, “If you cannot find Christ in the beggar at the door, you will never find him in the chalice.”

We cannot tend to the spiritual needs of people and ignore their lives. We cannot look after their souls and ignore that they are starving. For the same reason, we cannot follow the “spiritual Jesus” and ignore the real man who was born in a stable and died when they hung him on a tree like a scarecrow. Toward the end of this chapter, when the crowd is horrified at Jesus’ teaching, he asks the disciples, “Do you also want to go away?” And Peter answers, “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of life.”
Peter was right, or he was almost right. Jesus not only has the words of life, he is the Word of life. And we are called to feast on that word, that life, so that we may share in it. We are, after all, what we eat.

This passage focusses us on one of the great mysteries of John’s gospel: the mystery of the Incarnation. Unlike the story of the manna in the desert where God feeds the Jews, God (in the person of Jesus) has become our food. And Jesus promises that this food is God’s invitation to participate in the divine life: not later, when we die, but now. We don’t need to, and shouldn’t, wait until the moment of our death to feast on God. It’s right here, at this table: so take, and eat. Amen.

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The next day he saw Jesus coming towards him and declared, ‘Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! This is he of whom I said, “After me comes a man who ranks ahead of me because he was before me.” I myself did not know him; but I came baptizing with water for this reason, that he might be revealed to Israel.’ And John testified, ‘I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him. I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water said to me, “He on whom you see the Spirit descend and remain is the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.” And I myself have seen and have testified that this is the Son of God.’ The next day John again was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by, he exclaimed, ‘Look, here is the Lamb of God!’ The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus. When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, ‘What are you looking for?’ They said to him, ‘Rabbi’ (which translated means Teacher), ‘where are you staying?’ He said to them, ‘Come and see.’ They came and saw where he was staying, and they remained with him that day. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. One of the two who heard John speak and followed him was Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother. He first found his brother Simon and said to him, ‘We have found the Messiah’ (which is translated Anointed). He brought Simon to Jesus, who looked at him and said, ‘You are Simon son of John. You are to be called Cephas’ (which is translated Peter). [The full readings for today can be found here.]

When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, ‘What are you looking for?’ They said to him, ‘Rabbi’ (which translated means Teacher), ‘where are you staying?’ He said to them, ‘Come and see.’

In the name of the Living God: Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer.
It’s an interesting choice, this passage that the Church has given us for the feast of St. Dominic. It’s an interesting choice, the choice that Andrew and Simon Peter made, to follow this wandering rabbi named Jesus. And it’s an interesting choice, the choice that Andee, Jason, Rosie, Wesley, Patti, Travis, Craig and Rafael are about to make. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
So, one of the few things that all four gospels agree upon was that John baptized Jesus. And in each Gospel, it’s a dramatic event. In Mark’s Gospel, the heavens are riven apart. In Matthew and Luke, we hear the very voice of God calling Jesus the beloved. But in John’s gospel, we get a kind of second-hand report, a report from John the Baptist, who says that he saw the Spirit coming down like a dove. And that Spirit announces that Jesus will baptize, not with a baptism of repentance and forgiveness like the Baptist, but with the Holy Spirit. And John then announces that Jesus is the Son of God.
I want to pick up this story on the next day, however. The next day, John was standing with two of his disciples and as Jesus walks by, John shouts, “Look, here is the Lamb of God.” John hearkens back, perhaps to the story of Abraham’s intended sacrifice of Isaac, or perhaps to the Passover lamb, with an insight into the sacrificial nature of Jesus’ ministry. It’s an early hint that following Jesus might not lead us down an easy road. As St. Thomas More said, “No one gets to heaven on a featherbed.” And yet, these brothers and sisters here with us today have chosen to follow Jesus, in the path of St. Dominic. It’s an interesting choice.
Then, the following day, John repeats his curious announcement and Andrew and another of John’s disciples begin following Jesus. The text has always left me wondering: what was it about Jesus that was so compelling? One of the giants of Anglican theology, Archbishop William Temple once observed, “We are Christians because we have been taught; and those who taught us were taught themselves.” But Andrew knew so little when he began following Jesus. My sense is that these two disciples had a profound hunger, a deep thirst to drink from the living water of the logos, the Word made flesh.
In John’s gospel, we meet a number of people who have this longing: Andrew, Nathaniel, Nicodemus, Thomas and the beloved disciple. Each of these are looking for the Truth, the veritas, the divine logos walking among us. They have the same spiritual hunger that we have all seen in these brothers and sisters who are about to take their vows this evening. And when one is full of that kind of passionate longing, nothing short of the Truth will do.
In our world, millions of people are looking for the truth. They look for it in wealth, in politics, on the television, on the internet, in dark conspiracies, in songs and books and art. We live in a nervous, anxious age. As St. Augustine observed, “You have made us for yourself, and our hearts are forever restless until they rest in You.” And while we may find hints of truth in art, or science, or music, the real Truth most of us are looking for isn’t an idea or a scientific discipline or a bit wisdom: it’s a person. It’s a person who asks us, just as he asked Andrew: “What are you looking for?”
So, when these two disciples begin following Jesus, the first thing he asks them is “What are you looking for?” What are you looking for? It’s a profound question. And it’s almost exactly the same ancient question Dominicans have been asking those about to make their vows for a very long time: What do you seek? What are you looking for?
As the gospel passage progresses, these two disciples ask Jesus, “Where are your staying?” The translation falls a bit short. In the Greek, the word is basically “abide,” the same word Jesus uses when he tells the disciples: “Abide in me.” It carries with it the connotations of “Where do you remain, where is your home where do you abide, where is your center?” And Jesus tells them, “Come and see.” He doesn’t give them directions, he tells them, “You have to follow me to understand.”
There’s a rich sense in which we cannot understand the heart of Christianity at all until we begin to follow Jesus. There’s a real sense in which the Christian life, the practice of abiding with Jesus, cannot be understood or explained—it has to be lived.
And then Andrew, well Andrew does something remarkable. He runs and tells his brother about Jesus, certain that he’s found the Messiah. So, I suppose in that sense Andrew may be the first Dominican. You see, he does what we Dominicans have been doing for years: he brings the world to Christ.
And when Jesus meets Simon, he gives him a new name. He tells him that rather than Simon, he will be called Cephas, or Peter. Again, there’s an old tradition in the religious orders of the brothers and sisters taking a new name. (I wanted to do that, but the Master at the time wouldn’t agree to call me Brother Batman.) Now, this tradition of taking on a new name makes sense, because our vows in the religious life are simply a continuation of the baptismal promises, and our baptism calls for us to be named.
But Peter isn’t only one who gets a new name: Jesus is called the Lamb of God, the Son of God, and the Messiah. This renaming tells us something very significant. In Christ, we are made (as Peter was made) a new creation. This is a story about new beginnings—a new beginning for Jesus, and a new beginning for Andrew and Peter, who decide to follow him. It’s an interesting choice.
Amen.

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I remember meeting Lea Courington over thirty years ago. We were both speaking at a legal seminar, and I recall that my first impression was that she was brilliant and very funny. That first impression survived a friendship of over thirty years, through a number of changes.
We had several things in common, besides the law. We both loved poetry, and music, and literature, and history. We were both Episcopalians, and shared similar politics, and we both loved to tell stories. Like me, Lea was convinced that the truth can always use a good stretch.
Through the years, Lea or I would call, always beginning with the introduction, “I just have a quick question.” Usually, we would hang up an hour or more later, having laughed loudly and recklessly throughout the conversation. And when I became a writer, Lea and Kris came to see me at book events. When my collection of poetry came out, Lea bought something like six copies, meaning that she was responsible for about one-third of the total sales of that book.
And about 10 years ago, I told Lea that I was joining a religious Order, the Dominicans. And several minutes later, after the laughter died down, we had a long talk about what that might mean. And about three years ago, our relationship and our discussions took on more of a spiritual nature. Through all these changes, our affection for each other remained. Genuine friendship and genuine love survive the odd curve ball’s life throws us, and I have every reason to believe that it survives death.
And if we look at the selection of Scripture that Lea chose for us today, they have a common theme: a theme of being recognized, of being known, of being in a family, of being loved. I know these were the things that drove Lea, that marked her life. These are the things that I will remember about her. If we look at the last reading, we find a theme of being bound together, to each other and to God. Paul wrote, and Lea believed: “For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God….” Our love binds us in bonds that our stronger than anything, stronger than death.
I know that many of you may have gotten, through the years, an email sent out by Lea on June 6. It was a memorial to the men who landed on the beach at Normandy on D Day. When Lea went to Normandy, she found it terribly moving and I know she loved that place. Lea was especially moved by those men, who knew as she knew that “none of us lives unto ourselves, and none of us dies to ourselves.” But there was something else going on in that email. Lea wanted us to remember, because she knew that there was something holy about our recollection, something sacred about our memories.
In fact, soon, we’ll all be invited to gather around this table, and we’ll hear the words of Jesus: “Do this in remembrance of me.” Our memories, particularly today our memories of Lea, bind us together in the sacred act of recollection. Oh my Lord, my Lord, my sweet Lord: I will miss that brilliant, funny, compassionate, fragile woman. I will miss Lea, but more importantly, I will remember her. I hope you will, too. Amen.

The eighth chapter of Mark’s Gospel is pretty much bursting out–full of a lot of that Jesus stuff. Jesus feeds the four thousand, argues with the Pharisees, and restores sight to a blind man at Bethsaida. And, after all this, he asks the disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” And more importantly, “Who do you say that I am?” It’s a marvelous question. Who is Jesus? More importantly, who is Jesus to me? What has he got to do with my life? That question alone merits 40 days worth of contemplation.

In response to Jesus’ question, Peter offers an answer and it’s stunning. Peter: who is always full of enthusiasm if not wisdom. Peter: the kid in class who raises his hand regardless of whether he knows the answer or not. I love Peter. He is hopelessly earnest although a bit clumsy. This gives me hope. He and I are so much alike. Well, except for that sainthood thing. And I’m working on that.

Peter answers that Jesus is the Messiah, the Christ, the son of the living God. And that gets us to the Gospel this morning, which is where everything begins to go haywire. Because while the disciples, and all of Israel, was waiting for a certain kind of Messiah, Jesus was busy being a different kind of Messiah. They were looking for a king, a godly king to be sure, but mostly the kind of king who would get rid of all those Romans around there. They were looking for someone to raise up a guerilla army and take back their country, to liberate them like Moses did, to fight for them like David did. They were looking for someone to make Israel great again. They were looking for someone to beat up the bullies who were beating up on them. And Jesus had no intention of doing that.

Jesus teaches his disciples about the cross—a cross that will ultimately stand at the center of the universe, binding it all together in an act of blessing and filling the world with his eucharist. Through the cross, Jesus will transform his life and ours into union and communion with God. The cross, this instrument of torture and shame, will become so bound up with our notion of blessing and hope and salvation that we can no longer separate them.

Jesus tells his disciples, “This Messiah thing isn’t what you think at all.” He tells them the Messiah will be rejected, will suffer, and be killed. Now, that’s not the worst part. Because then, Jesus tells them, if you want to be my followers, you have to deny yourselves and take up my cross and follow me. Let me rephrase that, Jesus tells us, you and me, that we have to pick up that cross.

So, I’m wondering, what exactly does your cross look like? What are the nails that bind you to that cross?

I’ll tell you a story about picking up the cross, and it’s a story that makes me proud, and it’s a story that makes me ashamed. It’s mostly a story about my baby brother, Sean Michael, and he’s been on my mind a lot lately because this week was the anniversary of his death.

You see, many years ago, out in West Texas, my mother lay in her home dying of cancer. And there came a time when the morphine just wasn’t working very well. And my mother, you see, she couldn’t stand to be touched at all. She would scream like the demons of hell were tormenting her. Well, the time came when my mother needed to be bathed, and her dressing needed to be changed. And I, well, I just couldn’t do it. I could not watch her suffer—this woman who taught me to walk, to read, to think for myself. I just couldn’t bear to hear my mother scream or cry; I couldn’t bear to see her in pain.

But my brother Sean could, and did. He would gently bathe her and change her dressing, while I remained outside. My baby brother, Sean Michael, picked up that cross and I did not. And I was ashamed of myself, but I was proud to call this strong, brave man my brother. And I want to suggest to you that the nails that bound my brother to that cross were the same nails that bound Jesus to his. They were not made of iron; they were made of love. You see, love is the only thing that ever really binds us to the cross.

Now, since that time, I have encountered other crosses. And some of them, I have been able to pick up and carry for a while. I think that’s how the Christian life works: we learn much more from our failures than from our successes. And slowly, bit by bit, we are changed. Bit by bit, the stuff in our lives that isn’t Jesus begins to fade away until more and more of the divine part of us begins to shine through.

And that’s the fundamental purpose of Lent: bit by bit, we are changed; we become more Christlike. Through grace, we grow in faith, we learn to deny ourselves and pick up the cross. We learn to give up our false selves, in order to save our true lives, the lives God meant for us to live. We learn to surrender our selfishness, until our true humanity shines through and we recover the Christ within us.

Whoever is from God hears the words of God. The reason you do not hear them is that you are not from God.’

The Jews answered him, ‘Are we not right in saying that you are a Samaritan and have a demon?’ Jesus answered, ‘I do not have a demon; but I honour my Father, and you dishonour me. Yet I do not seek my own glory; there is one who seeks it and he is the judge. Very truly, I tell you, whoever keeps my word will never see death.’ The Jews said to him, ‘Now we know that you have a demon. Abraham died, and so did the prophets; yet you say, “Whoever keeps my word will never taste death.” Are you greater than our father Abraham, who died? The prophets also died. Who do you claim to be?’ Jesus answered, ‘If I glorify myself, my glory is nothing. It is my Father who glorifies me, he of whom you say, “He is our God”, though you do not know him. But I know him; if I were to say that I do not know him, I would be a liar like you. But I do know him and I keep his word. Your ancestor Abraham rejoiced that he would see my day; he saw it and was glad.’ Then the Jews said to him, ‘You are not yet fifty years old, and have you seen Abraham?’* Jesus said to them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, before Abraham was, I am.’ So they picked up stones to throw at him, but Jesus hid himself and went out of the temple. John 8: 47-59.

Whoever is from God hears the words of God. The reason you do not hear them is that you are not from God.

In the name of the Living God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

You know, sometimes, sometimes, I absolutely hate the lectionary. I’ve got a sermon, or I’ve got a theology, or I have an understanding, and it just won’t fit into the text that I’ve been given. Sometimes, the text just doesn’t have much to do with my idea of God, or Jesus, or holiness at all. But to paraphrase former secretary of defense Donald Rumsfeld, we’ve got to deal with the lectionary we have, not the one we wish we had. In fact, as today’s gospel reminds us, we’ve got to deal with the Jesus we have rather than the one we wish we had.

If you ever find yourself infatuated with the kind, squishy, gooey caramel Jesus, I suggest that the eighth chapter of John is the best antidote for you. This is not a Jesus made for people who need puppies and unicorns and glitter: this is a Jesus in conflict. It’s a conflict that begins in the opening lines of the 8th chapter with the story of the woman caught in adultery, a conflict that will ultimate get Jesus killed.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. You know, back when I was just a kid, growing up in West Texas, some of the earliest questions I can remember people asking me were: “Where are you from? Who are your people? Are you any kin to those Dennis’ over in Scurry County?” We are fascinated with questions surrounding our origins. I think that’s based on the assumption that if we can know the origins of a thing or a person, we will then understand it, and know which box to put it in. These are the very questions that our gospel today centers upon.

So, we heard a bit about this conflict yesterday. And this morning, the conflict has accelerated. Jesus’ accusers go so far as to accuse him of being a Samaritan, or of having a demon. Now, in either instance, if he were a Samaritan or if a demon had driven him insane, the implication is that no one needs to listen to what Jesus had to say. Jesus turns away from the insult, returning to the notion of his origin, his source. The only authority Jesus claims for himself is the authority of the Father.

Jesus then makes a remarkable claim: those who keep his word will never see death. So, now we have the competing claims of authority. Those who oppose Jesus claim their authority arises from Abraham, the father of monotheism. They rest upon their link, their lineage, back to Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and the prophets. They ask Jesus, they mock Jesus: “Are you greater than our father Abraham, and all the prophets who died?” The question echoes with the question posed in the 4th chapter of John’s Gospel by the Samaritan woman at the well: “Are you greater than our father Jacob who gave us this well?”
Jesus refuses to entertain the question of who’s greater. He says he’s not interested in his own glory (in the Greek doxa). Whatever glory Jesus has will come from the Father, and not from them. Jesus responds that they don’t even know the Father. Jesus argues that he knows both the Father and Abraham. Now the fight is joined: they know Jesus is crazy because he couldn’t know Abraham. Abraham has been dead for centuries.

And here’s the punch line: Jesus claims before Abraham was, I am. It’s an odd formulation. He doesn’t claim, I was before Abraham was. He says, “Before Abraham was, I am.” I am. In the Greek, ego eimi. It is the same phrase Jesus uses when he says, “I am the bread of life, or “I am the true vine” or “I am the good shepherd.” It is the same phrase that answers Moses’ question, “Who are you?” I am who I am. It’s an origin story. Jesus’ origin lies at the beginning of creation: the Logos who was with God and was God from the beginning.

It’s a remarkable claim. It’s the sort of claim that’ll get you in a rock fight, get you killed, get you crucified up on a tree. So, I think there’s a lesson for us as Dominicans. Jesus, the truth, finds himself in conflict with those who cannot accept the truth. For those of us who follow Dominic, who belong to an Order whose motto is Veritas, this offers an important lesson. Our lives will not be free of conflict. We follow a man, a God, who was born and lived a good part of his life in conflict. You see, in a world full of comfortable lies, the truth will always fall under attack. Scripture teaches us that: we need only look to the stories of Amos, Elijah, the other prophets or Jesus.

The first weapon of our Ancient Enemy was the lie. Jesus told us, He was a liar from the very beginning. Our ancient enemy said, if you eat this fruit, you will not die, but you will become gods. Lies have a remarkable power. As my father used to say, a lie can travel three counties over while the truth is still tying its shoes.

In a land of lies, the truth will stand out like a sore thumb. And history teaches us that lies cannot bear the light of the truth. Modern history teaches us this as well. From Gandhi to Martin Luther King, lies and liars cannot suffer the presence of those who commit themselves to the Truth. They cannot, and I choose this word carefully, abide it. So, we should not expect our road to be easy. Ours is the road that leads to Jerusalem and to Golgotha.

So, as we leave this place, go home safely, go in peace and with our blessing and our love. But as you go, listen for God’s voice. Make that your home; abide there. But walk in truth, with the incarnate Truth, the Logos, the Christ. Amen.